


Good Clean Fun

by nigeltde



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Consent Issues, First Time, M/M, PWP, Reality Issues, Season 12 Episode 02, season 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 09:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10303010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nigeltde/pseuds/nigeltde
Summary: Loose lips sink ships.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags. 
> 
> [Wetsammywinchester](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WetSammyWinchester/pseuds/WetSammyWinchester) was once again an amazing beta. Remaining errors are mine. Title stolen from Cat Power.

Dean wakes, sore and cold and stiff, poured like wax onto the kitchen floor. He has a photograph clutched in his hand and two pressing needs: to piss and to see his brother. It's just before dawn, the sun rolling around while he wasn't looking, and it takes a moment to recall the pity party that put him here. 

The photograph is of Sam and him from some forgotten out-of-time era when they could laugh like that. It has a print-smeared, worried-over golden glow. Dean is in his Dad's jacket, and his face is bowed away from Sam like it's too much to look at him. 

He slips it in the breast pocket of his shirt and stands, in stages, cracking his neck, wedging his hand into the small of his back. He's getting too old for a night on the boards. Christ, he's older than his mother. 

Her door is on the way to the bathroom. She hadn't chosen it; he'd offered it to her, as one of the clean ones. People have slept in there before. Other dead people: Charlie, Kevin. If she's awake now she's lying in the dark and that strikes him, standing outside with his hands nerveless and his breath shallow and quiet, as a bit too obvious. 

He hopes she's asleep, but doubts it. It can be hard to trust you'll wake up.

He pisses and washes and does the usual human things. Fixes his hair and pokes at a blocked pore. Bends to drink from the tap, hangover-parched, feeling a branching venous chill in his chest as the water soaks in. 

He's hiding. Some dreadful, anchored hope expects her any second to be up and wandering the halls, big lost eyes looking for someone she recognises and her mouth pulling down. She won't find it in him. She's so beautiful but it mismatches his memories, his photos even, and he can't see her in the mirror, can't see his brother's face in hers either. Like she's nothing at all to them.

There's light under Sam's door. Faint, from the lamp. No noise and he hesitates again, hand hovering over the doorknob. He's glad she's keeping to her room, and ashamed of his relief. But if Sam's awake and waiting then it's probably her he's waiting for. He doesn't want to be a disappointment.

Sam's awake. Stretched out on his bed, turned up to the ceiling, arm crooked under his head. Powerful and free, that kid sitting next to Dean's heart all grown up.

Whole, unblemished, alive. He makes it through, every goddamn time. Dean's not sure what he did to get so lucky.

“Hey man,” he says, and closes the door behind him. Sam startles, blinking and refocusing, shifts quick up the bed and over the far side, leaning against the headboard, making room; Dean would grab a chair but he's feeling the same pull of closeness, the afterdeath yearn, and he plants himself on the bed, halfway down and facing Sam. Crooks his leg under and lets the mattress creak. 

Up close Sam is grazed with stubble and tired-looking, eyelids pink and bruises under his eyes that Cas couldn't take away, or that have appeared since. He doesn't throw Dean a bone, ask him why he's here; just watches him, impassive.

Waiting for a freak out, maybe. Dean doesn't do freak outs. But he's in a weird mood. And down the hall is his mother. _Down the hall is his mother_ , and if that's the case, then there's some question as to just who it is that's sitting in this room, because the people in this room are supposed to be orphans.

Dean clears his throat.

“You get any sleep?” 

Sam twitches his head in what might be a shake, and Dean frowns. 

“What have you been doing?”

“Thinking.”

“For seven _hours_?” It's a yelp more than anything but thankfully Sam's too tired to mock him for it. Too tired for expression as a whole. “You okay?”

“I'm fine.” 

Dean eyeballs him sceptically and gets the same in return, a long impersonal head-to-toe like Dean's as raw on the outside as he feels on the inside, sitting here with more family in reach than he's had in a decade.

It's been tough to track and name the overfull nervous feeling that's been pushing him around. For the last two weeks she's been saying goodnight to Dean like it was a favour bestowed a stranger. Hasn't kissed him, hasn't said squat about angels. She's a grown woman, he reminds himself. She doesn't go around kissing random dudes. 

She doesn't want anything from him.

“You see her then?”

Sam raises an eyebrow.

“Mom,” Dean says, down at the thin grey wool of Sam's blanket, scratching at it. The ranks of fibre bend in the weft against his thumbnail. There's a funny taste in his mouth. It's not right, to say the word when it means something real in the world. Someone. “Have you…. I thought. You might have wanted some one-on-one.”

“How considerate,” Sam says, wry. Back to addressing the ceiling, but he's loosening up, not as rigid over the other side of the bed. Dean knows the ghost-ache of pain that comes with the kind of heal Sam just got. It takes a while to find ease, to stretch back out into your body.

And that wasn't counting the shock of _her_. He was the only other person on the planet who knew how Sam felt on that one. He knocks his knee against Sam's thigh and feels a bit more real with Sam's eyes on him.

“Jesus, Sam. She was just standing there. I couldn't believe it. I just couldn't fucking believe it.” Sam snorts and Dean grins, returning his irony. “Yeah. I was – of all the crazy shit that's happened to us. Can you believe it, man?” 

“Nope,” Sam says, smile hinting in the curl of his lips. Dean wants so desperately for him to be happy about this. Unalloyed, unvarnished. He deserves to be happy about it, after what he's been through. And someone has to be. 

“So you didn't talk to her?”

Sam blinks, a little shamefaced. “Yeah, I talked to her.” 

Dean wishes he'd been there to see it. Hear it, get a briefing on it, read the report, something. To have her be faced with his brother. So much about Sam he'd tried to tell her during those fruitless searching days, the words always dying in his mouth, a fear of poisoning the well. There's no adequate way to describe his brother anyway. No real words. Better to let her deal with the fact of Sam, the best thing to come out of all the crap his family's been though.

Better to get her looking at someone else.

It's clear enough already that he's not living the life she imagined for her son. All this talk about Dad too, a scraped and bitter feeling like Dean's that biddable kid he was ten years ago, twelve, twenty. He knows he's not the man his dad would have had him be, and with her here he can't remember if that's a good thing. Mary and John, John and Mary. They met at the movies and so Dean became a Vonnegut fan. Who the fuck were they?

Dean swallows and tests the waters.

“How great is it, right?”

“Like a dream come true,” Sam says, drier than dust, and relief hits Dean square, lets him take a free breath.

“Oh, _man_.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “I keep expecting it to be – it's not a bad thing, I mean, it's great, it's awesome. But it's more complicated than – well, I never imagined it,” he says, and half-laughs, lump in his throat making it pathetic. His cheeks heat. “That'd be stupid. Anyway. You're back.”

He lets too much show maybe, never can get a handle on his face, looking at Sam. Sam flinches and flicks his eyes away.

“And what,” he says, heavy with a kind of morbid curiosity, “am I supposed to do with you?”

A handful of hours ago Dean had clowned it up with a piece of pie and his brother at his right hand and his mother at his left and he'd seen them look at each other, wonder on her face and on Sam's faux exasperation, and that had been over Dean. Dean had made that happen. 

“Put up with me,” Dean says, and warms when that same secret amusement flickers across Sam's face, borne of time and confinement and mac and cheese and charley horses: his brother knows him at least. “Like you always do.”

Something flickers in Sam's eyes and any softness in him drops away. 

“Ask me what you came to ask me.”

“Hey,” Dean says, and grabs his shoulder. His shirt is damp, slightly. He's underweight because that snooty bitch didn't feed him right and he's running hot, nearly feverish under the statue act he's got going on. Dean shakes him gently, tries to catch his gaze. “You okay? It's weird. I know. I just mean – now we're all together. That bit feels like – like it could be good.” 

Sam reaches up and pulls Dean's hand off his shoulder; and then he just doesn't let go. Holds it in front of his chest and kinda plays with it like Dean's not even attached, turning it in the light, dragging skin in over bone, rubbing at a freckle. Something he used to do as a little kid, that Dean hasn't thought of in years: running his thumb the wrong way along the vein before releasing the blood to plump up blue. 

It's nothing like a massage. He bends Dean's pointer back against the middle knuckle like he's testing the strength. Dean flexes in his grasp, the joint straining, and another obscure decades-absent memory hits him: pain, and a girl's sour, narrow-eyed disbelief.

“Oh, shit,” he says, and laughs. “Remember, where was it, Jersey? I broke my finger in the car door? And I told Amber Whatsherface I was in a barfight?”

Sam frowns, staring down at Dean's hand.

“I forgot about that.”

“Me too, man, you remember her face?”

Sam's frown deepens.

“I'm the only one who knows that.”

“Well.” Dean grins. “I was there too,” and then his whole body freezes in a careful dumbfounded way as Sam lifts Dean's hand and puts it to his nose. He sniffs Dean's hand. He _sniffs Dean's hand_.

“Um,” Dean says. This is new back-from-the-dead territory for them, he has to admit.

“Oh,” Sam sighs. He tilts his face so his lips press to Dean's palm, soft, sparking every dormant nerve in Dean's body, banging panicked around his chest. His voice is low enough that Dean doesn't think he's meant to hear. “This is just me.”

When he speaks his mouth moves against Dean's skin. Dean's fingers curl uncertainly against his cheek, rise and fall with the small shift of his jaw. The pit of Dean's stomach lurches, knots.

“You're never just you, Sam,” Dean says, hoarse, stupefied, and feels Sam's lips brush his palm again, his humid breath. It's – well, it's getting to him, and that thing he banished years ago wakes up fast like it never went away, to have his brother touch him like this. But that was just something that had happened. Sam had just been – upset. Didn't even remember it. Dean was the only one who carried that around, and Dean's not – that's not Dean, Dean's not about that, it hadn't changed anything.

Sam noses into the centre of his palm. The knot in Dean's stomach twists and burns.

This is bad. This is not why he's here.

Sam doesn't seem to care.

“Would you have? Ever?”

Dean opens his mouth and can't summon the ignorance needed to reply. The words _ever what_ ring loudly in the air. 

“I always wondered.” Sam lowers Dean's hand; done with smelling him, thank God, but he keeps hold, gaze lowered, hair falling forward. Dean's thumb is not so far from the line of his brow. It's a frightening thought. “Always.”

Dean glances at the door. Sam's fingers tighten. 

“It's unlocked,” Dean says, and regrets it immediately. Saying it is an allowance of possibility. That Dean could be a person who could conceive of it. That that guy could fit within his skin, undistorted, undercover. Waiting.

Sam's mouth thins.

“No locks.”

“We're not…” It catches in Dean's throat, barbed, dangerous. “We're not the only people here.”

If there was a right time to bring their mother into this mess, that wasn't it. Sam drops his hand and folds himself away blank and barely moving, some internal detachment and reset. The lamplight hits one side of his face and throws the other into shadow, makes him look skinnier than usual, pointier, puts hollows in his cheeks, his eyes.

This isn't even about Mom, Dean realises. Belatedly, with a pang, guilt cutting in about how long it took him to find his brother. Sam lying here sleepless being all freaky and touchy, that's not about her, that's not even about Dean. This is about whatever happened to Sam. Down in that basement.

“Ah, crap.” He says his brother's name and reaches for him, scruffs through Sam's hair, lets his fingers hook and tangle until he gets Sam's attention back. “Hey, earth to Sam. You got something you wanna talk about?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “It's so productive, talking to echoes.”

“ _Echoes_?” Dean says, offended, withdrawing, and it surprises Sam into a barked pure laugh, bright and amused, eyebrows climbing. His eyes glinting hot and an easy dimpled grin and he grabs back at Dean, tugging at his shirts so Dean's off balance.

“I mean, it's a little masturbatory, even for me.”

“Mastur—” Dean stumbles over the word, fumbles, for his dignity and reason: Sam's face is close and soft and his brother is present, really _here_ for the first time since Dean pulled him out of that hole in the ground. 

“Look at you,” Sam whispers. He's still smiling, crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He's getting old too. He's still goddamn beautiful.

“Sam,” Dean says, on fire. Sam's eyes dip to his mouth.

“It was never gonna happen,” Sam says, hushed as a prayer.

Dean swallows.

“It could,” he says, shocking himself deeply, voice gravel, and then it disappears entirely. Sam pulls him in.

They kiss. Chaste, a soft press of lips.

“Beer,” Sam says, thoughtful, breath puffing. Dean can't tell if he's meant to be ashamed.

“Yeah, I just--”

Sam licks, his own lips, Dean's, kisses him again. Deeper and unmistakeable, he opens Dean's mouth and Dean goes with it, lets Sam in, frozen and breathless and pliant. Eyes closed. One hand planted on the bed trembling, trying to keep himself upright and steady and the other fisted on his thigh. 

Sam's a good kisser. Makes it slow and sliding and careful. Personal. Teeth sharp on Dean's lip and it's like it happens to Dean all at once, all over, blazing through him, mouth heart lungs dick, toes curling. Skin on skin. It's a wild mad thought, and true enough to gut him: where they're touching, that's them, together. Skin on skin. 

It feels good.

A pause for air. Sam nips at him, noses at his cheek.

“Tell me something.”

“Uh,” Dean says, slack and blinking. Sam pulls away, a hair's breadth.

“Surprise me.”

His lips are wet and swollen and his eyes are shining and he wants something from Dean. Dean sucks his cheek between his teeth and bites down and puts his hand – he puts his hand on Sam. 

No blood, no life. He's not hard, not even getting there. Dean gropes him a couple of times to be sure, and watches his face collapse into disappointment.

Dean snatches his hand back.

“Fuck.”

“No,” Sam says, and rubs his forehead. 

“Oh, fuck,” Dean says, airless and crawling with horror. He turns away and thinks vaguely that maybe he'll throw up. 

Sam sighs. 

“Don't bother.” His voice is flat, unimpressed.

“I gottta--” Dean starts to get up, and Sam pulls him carelessly down to thump onto the mattress, making Dean flail for balance.

“Don't make a production out of it,” he says, and winds his fingers tighter when Dean tries to snatch his sleeve free. 

“Let me _go_ , Sam,” he says, tasting bile. “Fuck's sake, are you _high_?” 

“An argument could be made,” Sam says, and then, bizarrely, grins huge at Dean's alarm. “You look like shit.”

“I look amazing,” Dean says automatically, yanking again at Sam's hold. He knows he looks like like uncooked ass. He feels worse. Sordid, ill, his sleeve stretching tight and wrong against his shoulder. Everything is sideways, he can't get a grip on any of it. His brother and his mother, the nutso depression revue. 

“You always looked...”

Sam trails off, tugs him in again and slips a casually radical hand beneath Dean's undershirt, across his clenching belly, skating up his chest, pebbling his skin. His fingers are cool.

“And they say romance is dead,” Dean cracks. Weak and desperate, fighting for a foothold and losing.

Sam stills, flicks his eyes up. His thumbnail catches on Dean's nipple and Dean can't fully suppress his shiver.

“You want candles?” He fixes now on the shape of his hand under Dean's shirt, pressing his fingers into Dean's skin, blunt nails scratching, finding and pulling at the hair there, a sweet sting. 

“Uh, _no_ , I don't want candles. I wanna know what's going on.”

“You think that's why you're here?”

Dean shakes his head.

“Listen, smartass--”

Sam looks him in the eye and rubs his thumb across Dean's nipple, hard this time. 

It's deliberate. Unthinkable. A direct line to his dick and there's nothing Dean can do to stop it showing on his face, his involuntary breath. 

“Sam.” He flushes, hearing his voice so heavy and rough with meaning, his brother's name foreign in his mouth, never spoken before. “What are you doing?”

“Stop asking stupid questions,” Sam says. He almost sounds bored.

“Jesus,” Dean says, aghast. “Hang on, I mean, hang on a second.” 

“Save it.”

“You're all over the place.”

Sam sighs. More disappointment. Dean can't get on the right page with him, can't say anything right, he's too smart for Dean, laps him at the best of times and Dean's pretty fucking far from his best time right now. He's never had his head on straight when it came to his brother, but this is something else entirely.

“I don't...I don't think--”

Sam's fingers spread out wide across Dean's chest. He leans forward and catches Dean's mouth, swallows his words.

“Just be you,” he murmurs, low, against Dean's lips.

“Which me?” Dean whispers, denial wedged high and sore in his throat. There are Deans who would have fled the room at Sam's first touch. There are Deans who would have carved their way into Sam with a blade and a smile. There are Deans who would never have knocked on the door.

“Be the you that would have done this for me.”

Dean closes his eyes. 

It's not the first time Sam has asked. 

There's a Dean that has let this happen. Once. Dad was dead, and Sam was drunk, barely conscious, and Dean had let him anyway, had pulled the car over and dropped his own beer down to rattle with the rest and let Sam slobber on him, push him back against the door and find the places where he was alive, his mouth, the pulse in his neck, his heart straining against the wall of his chest, his dick. So naked and needy; it's the ugliest of Dean's lasting silent regrets. 

Sam's hand lands on the back of his neck, and his lips bow at the corner of Dean's mouth, feather-light.

“Please.”

“Don't….don't say that.” Dean screws his eyes closed tighter, blood-violet fuzzing the world, overcome. Dean's judgement is not to be trusted, but Sam is supposed to be the smart one, and Sam has done this before. And Dean has been the kind of brother who let him. 

A lost father and Sam came to him. A found mother. It's too much to take alone.

“Please,” Sam breathes, drawing it out, cruel and heated, and Dean tilts his head and tilts forward and the whole goddamn world turns with him, falling him into his brother, his hot open mouth, his strength helping and catching as Dean crawls over his lap. 

Sam makes a satisfied victorious noise, slides his fingers through Dean's hair to hold him fast and and Dean rises high on his knees for room to pull at Sam's belt, the buckle jangling loud as Sam's neck bends back smoothly in offering. The buttons on Sam's shirt next and Sam slaps him away; and a second time, when Dean tries again, skin on skin burning through him, the need to see his brother fully.

“No,” Sam mutters, wrangling Dean's hands, worming between them to pull Dean closer. 

Clothes on, okay, Dean thinks, and adapts, pats Sam's cheek in an offhand grabby way, presses a hard constant kiss and shuffles them down until he can stretch them out, flat on the mattress, shoving his thigh between Sam's.

Sam arches and moans.

“Shh,” Dean hisses, flinching and casting a glance at the door, and Sam blinks up at him, amused.

“If you say so.”

“I do say so,” Dean says, and bites at the angle of his jaw to make his point, tongue rasping on stubble. His brother melts and reforms under him.

“What else do you say?” Sam asks, clear and dark. Dean, working Sam's fly one-handed, takes a moment to reply. 

“You want me to talk?” He says, rough, when he's through, and puts his hand back on Sam, the fabric covering his dick, not really even straining, still not there with Dean. 

Sam shrugs, he _shrugs_ , while Dean is touching his dick, outrageous; waiting to see what Dean can bring to the table, not even in this yet when he's the one that brought Dean here, who looked at Dean tonight and thought that this was in him. In them. 

Thinking, he was always thinking. Dean had to get him offline.

“I can talk, if you want. Or.” Dean lifts his chin and noses through Sam's hair, breathes in his ear. “I could just fuck you.”

Sam loses his air, whole body shuddering, and his dick comes alive in Dean's hand, thick and urgent. He's big. Dean shapes his fingers around, pressing the cotton taut. His mouth waters.

“Put you on your front.”

“Jesus,” Sam chokes, throat rising as he tips his head back. He scrabbles at Dean's shoulders.

“Keep you, tie you,” Dean says, knowing it's not enough, fumbling, rope not right, nor cuffs, the damage only just healed from a set of cuffs. “My shirt, with my shirt, it wouldn't be, not too tight.”

Sam's legs open for Dean with an ease that takes him down to his barest sense, Sam's ankles hooking over, trying to pull them closer where it counts. His eyes shut tight and his cheeks red as a slap. Jesus Christ.

“Might hurt,” he whispers, breath catching as Sam shudders again, pulse in his dick and his lips parting, and he's frowning too, feeling it and trying to think his way through.

“Then I could--” Dean's brain stutters to a stop. “I could do anything to you.”

Sam bucks under him and twists, knocks Dean to the side and starts rolling, over to his belly. Belt dragging, his clothes a mess. The pure-muscle span of his back, the pale dip of skin where his shirts have rucked up, put there for Dean to see, to have, and Dean kicks his boots off and swings his thigh over Sams', slots himself back on top. His teeth find the square inch of bare neck between Sam's collar and his hair, tangled and sweat-dark.

“You'd just have to take it.”

“Yeah,” Sam gasps, arches his ass against Dean, and Dean meets him strength for strength, elbow digging into the mattress for leverage. Grinds his hips down, shows him how much Dean wants it, how crazy it's making him.

“You'd like it.”

“Yeah,” Sam moans again, and reaches under, hand on his own dick like that was the end of it, no care that Dean's in crisis here, tiny room closed down around them and hot and cramped in his jeans. He grabs at Sam's wrist and hauls, fingers closing around bone and tendon, clearing their bodies to brace on the bed. Sam fists the sheets, white-knuckled.

“You want it,” Dean says, and ruts down, not enough, not enough. He wants it too, more than life, to get inside, be inside Sam; it'd be so tight. Sam spreads his knees and hitches to get a better angle and he knows Sam's thinking the same, how good it would be, the stretch, the heat. How complete. “Fuck, Sam.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, and his voice is wrecked, airless. “If you'd known. How much.”

“Yeah,” Dean grunts, shifting; he's so hard it hurts, and he squeezes his hand between them and thumbs at his fly, his zip, relief and release. He scrabbles at the waist of Sam's jeans and shoves them down to his thighs. 

Skin on skin. 

Sam makes a noise, high and gutpunched, gasping, chest expanding under Dean as they grind again. 

“Would have, I would have let you do anything.” 

“Sam.” Dean's dick drags down the crease of his ass and slots behind his balls. “Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah, I would. Have been anything, I wanted, all that shit in my head, it wouldn't go away.” 

Dean could come like this in seconds, the way they're woven together, Sam trying so hard to make space for him, make it good. He breathes, slows, stills: pulls at Sam's collars, exposing the uppermost vulnerable hunch of his spine; licks and sucks, salt and his brother's skin. 

“Oh, that's, that's, yeah,” Sam mumbles, and squirms, flexes, muscles in his thighs, his ass, grabbing at Dean, both of them trying to find friction and pressure. Dean's dick feels huge, and that's something else to love this brother for. “You never came. I would have left. Did leave.” 

“Leave?”

“School,” Sam says, heedlessly, hitting Dean like a knockout. It's old, this means, old and deep in Sam and hidden all this time. It's beyond Dean how he could have kept it so perfectly, secreted away like a pearl: crushed here in the sweat and heat that's shaking him it feels though that it's always been this, was always meant to be this, no better way to be, no better one to be than Sam's brother.

“Sam.”

“School, her, the, the fucking planet, my mind. Anywhere. Everything in me I would throw away.”

“ _Sammy_ ,” he groans, and starts up again, can't help it, dick throbbing.

“I'd do it, I'd do it,” Sam pants, strange and desperate, moving slick under Dean. “I have. I would. So obvious.”

“No one knows, Sam, it's just us, it's just us.”

“Stop it.” Sam does something to get his legs open more, jeans dragging down his thighs, resistant.

“Oh, stop it?” Dean says, and snaps his hips, twice, firm and slow, head of his dick grooving the back of Sam's balls and Sam moans a harsh bottomless sound that makes Dean ache through to his bones and years, years they could have had this. Dean was never brave enough to think it but it was running them anyway, working them like puppets and Sam had known, Sam had known. “You should have said.”

“It's private,” Sam says, or something like it, Dean can't hear right, Sam grinding his forehead into the pillow, gasping into the space between pillow and sheet. “It wasn't for you.”

“How about this? This for me?” he says, and drags his finger from the line of Sam's balls to his ass, wet with Dean's own precome, and Sam quakes and falls apart under him. Dean takes it as a yes, and presses inside.

“Yeah,” Dean rasps. “Just us.” He's drunk and stupid on the immutable truth of it, here in his hands. Skin on skin, blood on blood. The bow of Sam's neck, the line of his shoulders, the heat of him, inside, the way he clings like he doesn't want to let go. 

“Just us.” Sam laughs, strained and breathless, leans back onto Dean, tight drag, pushing him deeper. Dean bites at the meat of his back, sharp and hard.

“You should have said.”

“No.”

“Secretive little bitch,” Dean says, fond, warmth beating deep in his chest and a growing need to get back to face to face. “Hey, hey, let me see you.”

He pulls free and sits up, tugs at Sam's shoulder and turns him over, awkward shuffling of long limbs. His dick is full and heavy, gorgeous, thatch of dark hair and his jeans still around his thighs like they're up to some kind of illicit teenager business. 

Sam's eyes won't lock on his. He turns his head to the side which Dean can live with for now, skin he can get to, the sweat shining his temple, the perfect line of his brow. Bracing back down above him, and for a violent second their dicks hit and slide and Dean almost loses himself. Sam whimpers. It's nice to know they're in this together.

“Sometimes--” Sam breaks off as Dean grabs his jaw, tracks his mouth down into a messy sunken kiss, sucks on his tongue. His hips snap and his dick skates a burning line across Dean's belly.

“Come on, come on,” he mumbles, high, almost a keen, and Dean takes pity, palms him, fingers curling around the base of his dick, thick and hot and essential. Sam's head drops down to the pillow, lips parting, throat working. He stares black-eyed and stunned up at Dean.

“Sometimes?” Dean prompts, raising an eyebrow, and grins, twisting his hand, a hot white thrill waking in him at this new power he has, to make Sam mute, to make him writhe, open himself up to Dean.

“It--” Sam licks his lips. Dean licks too, dipping down. “It comes and goes.”

Dean pulls up his dick slow and firm and watches Sam's eyes flutter closed. He's frowning, concentrating, on the feeling of Dean's hand perhaps or whatever's banging around his head.

“Yeah?” Dean says, and twists his hand around the head, feels it in a wave through Sam's body, his jaw dropping, his knee knocking against Dean's. “You were saying?”

“Sometimes, I wanted this so much, I, it--”

Dean shifts, opens his hand to make room for himself, sliding next to Sam, scorching, smearing wet. Sam makes a wild noise and clutches two-handed at Dean's face, long fingers spidering, covering his eyes, heel of his hand flattening Dean's lips, pressing on his teeth and Dean has to turn away and open wide for air, heat and the smell of them in his lungs. 

“It was like being mad all over again.”

Dean jerks them together and knows how he feels, this moment too impossible, stretching out for so long. Sam's dick against his. Sam's hands on his face: Dean can almost feel the scar on his palm. Every one of his scars, like resolving prophecies.

“I hate it,” Sam moans, squirming as Dean works them faster, drops his hands back to the sheets, snatching, his heels scrabbling for purchase on the blanket, shoving it down the bed to tangle around Dean's feet. “What you do to me.”

_Unfair_ , Dean would say, except then Sam fucks his hips up, hitting a rhythm that gets the head of his dick nudging under Dean's, so perfect and steady it makes Dean want to cry or die or kill something, solid odds either way, balls heavy and aching, palm and fingers slick as he keeps them together as best as he can and his brother's voice sounding like the end of the line.

“It's not right.” 

“Look at me,” Dean says, and Sam screws his eyes closed and throws his hand over them for good measure, mouth drawing back into a grimace.

“Free,” he gasps, thin and shuddering, close, even hiding himself like he is Dean knows he's close, coming up to the edge and falling away again. “What am I gonna do, I'm free.”

“Relax, Sammy, I got you.”

“Shut up,” Sam says, wretched.

“You wanna come?”

“Yes.” There's a plaintive wail in his voice and Jesus but does that do it for Dean, to be asked like this, Sam the only person who would ever get away with it, the only one who could never be denied. And this is just the tip of the iceberg, he can tell that already; just a distant glimpse of the shit they could do together, whatever other little kinks and fantasies Sam's kept buried deep all these years. Dean's gonna take his time hauling them out into the light.

“You wanna beg me again, don't you,” Dean says, high on the sin of it, and Sam wheezes, surging up against Dean, into his hand, mouth red and bitten, tight and needful. 

“Please, please.” 

Dean bends low, arm trembling, hears his voice go deep as the grave.

“I wanna see it.”

Sam bucks and strains, chin thrown high and his throat taut, and Dean latches on and jerks them both through it, the hot spurt across his knuckles enough to send Dean over, blizzard-blind and emptied. Nothing left to Dean but the deepest core of him and he finds that Sam is there too, sidelong and back in rhythm with him as they ride the aftershocks together.

They wind up gasping, chest to chest. A muscle in Dean's thigh cramps, has been cramping a while, and he shuffles, wipes his hand on the sheet and shoves his face into the crook of Sam's shoulder and neck, waits for his breath to return to him, and his strength, laid out boneless and brainless, heavy atop his brother. His eyelashes catch in Sam's hair.

“Fuck _me_ ,” he says, deep and muffled by Sam's collar. Sam's jaw brushes his temple. His bony hip digs into Dean's belly, their skin is slick with sweat, come. He rolls onto his back and looks up at the ceiling fan, feels like he's spinning with it, waits for his heart to settle down into the same loping even rhythm.“I didn't know it would be like _that_.”

“I did,” Sam says, arch, and Dean thumps him lazily, curled fist knocking against his chest. 

“You think you're so smart.”

“Smart enough.” Sam yawns, jaw popping.

“Think you know me,” Dean grumbles, pleased, light and sore and buzzing. “Turns out all you had to do was ask.”

“Ask?”

“For this.”

He can sense Sam shake his head, but there's a photo in Dean's pocket and a sloppy buried handjob from ten years ago that proves him wrong. Dean's a sure thing when it comes to his brother. Always has been.

“I would have,” he says, and Sam sighs, quiet. 

“Go to sleep.”

“You first.”

“If I sleep then I have to wake up,” Sam murmurs, from deep in his chest, and strokes across Dean's head, bending Dean's hair the wrong way, idly tugging at strands. Dean wants it to go on forever. He wants it to have been going on forever.

“You could have said, wiseguy.”

“You would never have understood,” Sam says, remote. Dean yawns and pulls the blanket up over them. It's scratchy. He feels too good to care, limp and lax and fucked out. 

“You could have tried.”

There's a long pause. The ceiling fan beats dry air into Dean's eyes, making him blink. Sam shifts, reaches to turn off the lamp with a definitive click.

“It was private,” he says.

“Well, Sammy,” Dean says, into the dark, loving the way his brother's name curls in his mouth now. No way for this to disappear. No way for grief and drink and despair to turn this one into nothing. He rubs at his face and grins, feeling his lips stretch in a secret bright elation, helpless, basking in it. “Not anymore.”

::

The end

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback/concrit welcome. PS: Rene Descartes was a drunken fart.
> 
> [Rebloggable tumblr link for those so inclined.](http://nigeltde-fic.tumblr.com/post/158445855846/good-clean-fun-6050-words-by-nigeltde-chapters)


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